


Like a terrier

by M_Moonshade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John Watson is not okay, Sherlock tries to make it better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 08:36:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2422214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like they haven’t run through the motions yet—Sherlock with his awkward apology, John with his sighing acquiescence. But the words don’t mean what they used to. </p><p>“You don’t have to keep apologizing” doesn’t mean “I forgive you” so much as it means “please stop trying”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a terrier

**Author's Note:**

> This was written during the Great Hiatus (meaning before I had an account here), but the timeline isn't specific to that, so much as it is to any given moment when John Watson hits his breaking point.

John braces himself against the cane before he puts his hand to the doorknob.

He isn’t there. John knows that. Sherlock’s gone again, just like that. He feels like he’s got two hearts in his chest, one beating a tattoo into his throat while the other goes soggy from lack of movement. The world closes around him.

He isn’t there. He isn’t there.

He steels his resolve, grabs the doorknob like he means to wrench it free, and shoves open the door.

Sherlock is curled on the couch, phone in hand and robe tucked around him. He looks up like a terrier waiting for a biscuit.

“You’re here,” John says. Relief doesn’t entirely dull the edge in his voice.

“Yes.” There’s a note of disappointment there—no biscuit for Sherlock, not today—and he returns to his phone.

Of course he’s here. He’s always here, waiting for him, standing in sight of the door. It’s been months and that’s never changed. Even when he’s on a case, Sherlock will come back at promptly five-till-four, just so he’ll be there when John comes home from the surgery. He’ll leave again straight after, but when he’s gone he floods John’s phone with a torrent of texts. John doesn’t even read them anymore, only scans them for signs that he’s leaving again.

Nothing yet. But he knows it’ll happen. It’s bound to happen eventually.

Sometimes Sherlock brings him presents—takeout, coffee, a new jumper—like a cat might bring a dead mouse to his doorstep. Always he gives him that look, hopeful and excited and does-Sherlock-get-a-biscuit? And John tries to accept them graciously, but he can’t stop himself from asking if it’s been drugged or tampered with, if this is all a part of some new experiment. Every single time Sherlock’s face goes blank, his eyes glass over, and for the life of him he looks like he’s been hit across the nose with a newspaper.

And yet he keeps doing it.

It’s not like they haven’t run through the motions yet—Sherlock with his awkward apology, John with his sighing acquiescence. But the words don’t mean what they used to.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing” doesn’t mean “I forgive you” so much as it means “please stop trying”.

Sherlock starts approaching a healthy weight for what must be the first time in his life. He’s stopped skipping meals—at least he has when John’s in the house, and makes a point to eat conspicuously in John’s line of sight, as if to say “look, John, see? I can take care of myself”.

When they go anywhere together, Sherlock promptly introduces John—“my dearest friend”—and the reply dances on the tip of John’s tongue—“friends don’t do that to one another. Friends don’t lie that way. Friends don’t play dead for three years and then show up again like nothing happened”—but every time he bites it back and plasters a smile on his face. Sometimes Sherlock will sneak away, just outside his field of vision, and John’s heart starts racing all over again. His body freezes with adrenaline even as the deadness of depression spreads over him—he knows it should be impossible, but his body’s stopped caring about little things like possibility. He wants to chase after him, to grab him, put him on a leash or something—and then Sherlock reappears like magic, usually with yet another pretty girl in tow.

As much of a genius as Sherlock is, he should have noticed by now that John turns them all down, and then does the same when presented with a succession of handsome young men.

John isn’t interested in any of them. He’s had enough people leave him, thanks. Not again.

Not ever, ever again.


End file.
